


He and She

by PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After "Blood at the Wheel"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On the trip to his flat, she swung between indignant fury and soft, hopeful comprehension. The fury was at his excuse for retreat, which sounded too ill-considered for the logical man she knew. Isn’t everyone’s death imminent? Yes, she drove quickly and flew aeroplanes, but did he think she was immune from everyday tragedies, like being hit by a tram, or pulled by an undertow? And, most frustratingly, did he think his work was any less dangerous? Muddled with these thoughts was a compassion, an understanding that the reason he gave wasn’t the reason, and some part of him must know this too. Her realisation that he loved her lightened her, left her a little dizzy, a little panicky, and a little happy. Tears of a medley—anger, frustration, happiness and fear— gathered as she drove.

She knocked lightly on the ajar door and pressed it with her fingertips. He had just entered, hadn’t even shed his coat. Emotional exhaustion read on every feature, every limb, and made his movements sluggish. He glanced at her and felt a slight surprise that she should have come, but his red eyes were tired and inexpressive as he loosely flung his right arm in a half-assent for her to enter. He slipped off his coat and she closed the door.

As she stood in his entrance, the sensation of fainting gripped her, a soft, wet tingle slinking up her chest, neck and head. The refrain in her mind, the thing she wished she’d said earlier, the only thing she thought she might say to him now, was that if he found the idea of her death, her absence, unbearable, then how exactly was it more bearable if their separation was his doing? It was an angry thought and she meant to hurl it at him. She steadied herself and opened her mouth, even took an abrupt inhale to speak. Instead, her eyes moistened, and she gestured in confused circles. Her arms fell in an open, vulnerable position, heart and gut exposed, palms out. She came here with no plan or specific hope, only a vague feeling that connection was better than its opposite. This, however, she was at a loss to express.

Her initial reaction to _do_ something when he said he was giving her up suddenly seemed foolish, juvenile. As she watched him now he looked hollowed-out to her, like he’d used up every reserve of thought and feeling, and the image that came to her was one she had referred to earlier in the evening, of him dead among the wreckage. A ragged breath escaped her lips as her tears gathered again. She was causing him pain, hollowing him, and her presence here would only cause more. She began to turn to leave.

He saw her expression change and felt something break. He walked toward her as she turned, attempting to reach his hand to hers. She looked down and resisted slightly, beginning a turn in the other direction to attempt an exit, but felt her frustration and fear melt to gentler emotions at his nearness. This switching back and forth between intentions and hopes was exhausting her. Slowly, they leaned forward, perhaps to comfort, an automatic response. They each seemed pitifully bereft to the other. Each felt the other’s cheeks and noses gently explore their own, unsure if the wetness was from his or her own eyes. Hesitantly, their lips touched, but not in a soft, loose pucker, like a traditional kiss; it was more of a hard, stiff-lipped lean, like their mouths were as numb as their thought processes.

A fire lit. They were suddenly grasping, wild, uncoordinated. They crossed the room in an awkward, stuttering crab-walk and sat on his sofa, legs forward, torsos twisted to each other. She flung the leg touching his behind him, along the back of the sofa, grabbing his suit jacket, pulling him, while he leaned down toward her. Their kissing became pillaging, each trying to consume and be consumed. Teeth, tongue and lips flashed in savage succession. The heel of her shoe dug into his calf, pulling him up and closer, while his hand pushed at the rough fabric around her breast. It felt like listening to an orchestra, or watching a modern dance; it was pressed upon the senses, and the senses were overcome, leaving only feeling without criticism or comprehension.

Their movements were too frantic to be rhythmic. She began unbuttoning his trousers and he took the cue to unhook her slacks. She slipped her left leg out of her slacks and her smalls, then slid his undergarments and trousers down just far enough to access his cock. She tried to capture it by angling her hips, but the remaining clothing on her right leg prevented access. She frustratedly pushed the slacks down a few more inches and in one swoop grabbed his erection and brought it between her legs. They gasped and pressed, fabric preventing them from feeling each other’s skin except at mouth and groin.

Her rough breathing and grunting in his mouth, their uninhibited movements, everything was pleasing to him. Awe-inspiring. He groaned loudly as though with pain and she felt a succession of shudders ripple through his cock.

He focused his eyes slowly, seemingly removed from a trance, and shifted his gaze to hers. His look was purposeful and serious, and he gently moved his hand to touch the back of her head. He opened his mouth to speak, but she bit his lower lip hard, drawing blood. She didn’t know why she did that. He sucked in a breath of surprise, and felt himself grow hard within her. With slightly more wits about him, he shifted to disengage himself, slipped his trousers up, helped her into the leg of her slacks, and offered her his hand to help her stand. She felt her eyes begin to tear, unsure what his meaning was. Their coupling had left her unhinged and raw, emotions swarming her. Whichever direction he had in mind—seeing her to the door or seeing her to his bed—held equal fear for her.


	2. Chapter 2

She grasped his offered hand and held it firmly as she stood, not releasing it, for it felt like a mooring. He lowered his head to make eye contact and offered a soft half-smile noticing her slight tremor. Their arms remained in the soft-firm tension required for ballroom dancing, such that minor movements can offer direction. His right hand held her right hand as they faced each other, both feeling their caution returning and not wanting to give too much away. He tugged slightly, suggesting a slight pivot so that she would face the same direction as he, then slowly put his left hand at the small of her back. Her response at this light touch gave him ample information. He led her to his bedroom.

They stood at the foot of his bed. While maintaining eye contact, he slowly slipped off his suit coat and hung it in the wardrobe, unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and continued with the standard ministrations of undress. With a similarly soft, unhurried attitude she followed his example, removing her earrings, stripping her shirt, sliding out of her black slacks, all of which she draped on a nearby chair. The scene in its entirety felt dream-like. When they were both nude, they continued to stand, facing each other, hands to themselves.

She walked up to him and ran one hand down his bicep, palm up with a slight pressure from fingernails. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs slowly. She reached up and penitently suckled and licked the blood in the left crease where his lips met.

He put his hands low on her hips and buried his face in her neck, breathing her in. She rested her head against his, nuzzling him and breathing his musk in return. With another deep breath, he lifted her onto the bed. She moved herself up to slip her legs under the duvet, and he crawled in next to her, wrapping his arm around her and sinking again, dizzy again, unsure but uncaring about his uncertainty. He kissed her deeply, glad of the pain in his lip which tethered him to earth.

They made love. She knew this as it was happening, that it was lovemaking and not something easier. She knew it by the tenderness and depth, by the sweet, swampy agony of her orgasm, by the unaccustomed tears. She experienced him like a wave enveloping her and tending to her.

They continued their tacitly agreed-to silence. Perhaps without banter this wasn’t real, wasn’t them. Perhaps if this ended poorly there would still be something to salvage.


	3. Chapter 3

They lay in the earliest dawn facing each other and sharing a pillow. Their noses were within a few centimetres and hands were loosely laced between them at chest level. Their bodies lay parallel—no foot or knee crossed the invisible line breached only by their hands, as though nervous to intrude, even in sleep.

Her eyes fluttered open and she considered the face opposite her at close proximity. The crust in the corner of his eye, the eyelash on his stubbled cheek. She tried to remember her earliest impression of him. Stuffy, that was it. She remembered he seemed easier to rankle than most men. And she remembered true delight when he recognised that she was competent. Since she long ago she gave up hoping to please anyone, she realised that should have been a clue.

She brought their joined hands to her lips and kissed the knuckle on his middle finger. He stirred.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

His eyes opened, and he made the same up-close assessments she had. The smeared eye makeup, the loose strands of shed hair on her neck.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered back, choking a bit.


End file.
